


The Devil Herself

by Piinutbutter



Category: Cordelia (Movie Poster), Original Work
Genre: F/M, Femdom, First Time, Gothic Horror Elements, Historical, Pegging, Seduction, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27770689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piinutbutter/pseuds/Piinutbutter
Summary: A writer retires to an isolated countryside estate in hopes of finding inspiration. What he finds instead is a woman unlike any he's known before.
Comments: 16
Kudos: 57
Collections: Heart Attack Exchange 2020





	The Devil Herself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HogwartsToAlexandria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HogwartsToAlexandria/gifts).



> This is an original work using the infamous movie poster as a prompt/basis. I'd love to get around to seeing the movie itself one day! But today is not that day.

The caretaker was not there to welcome him when he moved into his new home.

She was not there the second day. Nor the third.

He was left to settle himself in with only the aid of a handful of servants, whom he quickly dismissed once his meager collection of personal items had been scattered about the place in a semblance of homemaking. He’d come here to find solitude. Were he not so aware of his own...difficulties in finding motivation, he would have dismissed the new estate’s caretaker the moment he found out there was one. Alas, he knew himself too well. The grounds weren’t large - hardly a mansion - but they were complex enough that a caretaker could handle all the drudgery and allow him to focus on his work.

His work. Just thinking of it made him tired. He’d made quite a career as an author of daring romance novels. Under a female pen name, of course. Given the unique genre of titillating stories he penned, it was safer to let his readers assume him a woman. Despite - or perhaps because of - his run of successful titles, he’d found himself at a loss on what to write next. His creative well seemed all dried up, and that simply wouldn’t do. He had a base of ravenous and loyal readers in his own niche, but if he kept them waiting too long, it was only a matter of time before some spritely young new author came along and swept them away. He had no real personal connection to the material he wrote, but he would be damned if he gave up such a lucrative market.

It seemed the best solution: Take a break from the bustling headaches of the city. Nourish his muse with fresh air in the lonely countryside.

Well. Lonely but for the caretaker, who _still_ had not shown her face. He was beginning to get rather annoyed with the woman before he’d even met her.

Their eventual meeting was not what he’d expected.

After a morning of staring at a page filled with a dozen false starts, he’d set his pen down and decided to explore the grounds more thoroughly. He hadn’t examined the second floor apart from his bedroom and the bath. As it turned out, there was a narrow balcony that wound around the estate’s humble courtyard. The door to the balcony creaked and protested when he first opened it, but he eventually pushed his way through.

He stepped out onto the balcony, taking a breath of the cool early-autumn air. He lowered his eyes to the blurry mass of greens, browns, and the occasional spots of vibrant jewel colors that made up the garden beneath him. His eyesight had been poor since childhood, and it seemed to be growing worse every year. He didn’t mind so much, as long as he could still write.

He braced his hands on the rusty metal railing and leaned over it, trying to take in the beauty of the courtyard.

“Careful.”

The voice was practically at his ear. A whisper - low, female. Before he had time to be startled by it, he was accosted by another surprise: Two hands wrapping around his upper arms and pulling him, stumbling, back from the railing.

Not a moment later, the segment of railing he’d been leaning on collapsed. The rusted metal fencing tumbled to the garden below, landing on the cobblestones with an angry clang.

For a few seconds, he stood still and waited for his heart to stop pounding in his chest. Then, he remembered that unfamiliar hands were still laid on him. He shook their grip off and turned to face his mysterious savior. This close, he could make out the details.

A woman. On the side of elder rather than younger. Neat, straw-colored hair tucked back in a practical style. A modest linen dress that, while well-kept, showed its age in the thinning trim.

Her most striking feature was her smile. A thin-lipped, almost cheeky smile that spoke of immense amusement at the fact that he had almost severely injured himself.

“This house is old,” the woman said in explanation. “Things tend to be...temperamental.”

He’d known his new place wasn’t exactly modern. It had been a selling point, in fact. He’d been charmed by the descriptions of history in its walls. There had been no mention of the house’s features aging to the point of posing a danger to its occupants.

“I see,” he said, straightening out his sleeves and composing himself. “You’re the caretaker, I presume?”

“You presume well. And you are my estate’s new master.” Her smile wrinkled the corners of her pale gray eyes. “I don’t need to presume that.”

Behind them, she pulled the balcony door back open, holding it for him and motioning for him to go back inside. While the gesture at first seemed generous, the balcony was so narrow that passing by her and into the doorway was tricky. It required him to step perilously close to the now-open edge where the railing had fallen.

As he did so, she put a steadying hand on his lower back and muttered, “Careful now.” Her smile didn’t waver. She’d done that on purpose, he was convinced of it.

Upon reaching terra firma, they walked side by side through the second floor hallways. They spoke as they went.

“So, you finally deigned to arrive?” he said, his lingering irritation only inflamed by the near-accident.

The woman cast her eyes to him without turning her head. He noticed she was no longer smiling. “What’s this? Not even a ‘thank you,’ for saving your life?”

He sighed. No matter how tardy she was, she was correct. He was being improper. “My apologies. You do have my thanks.”

Her smile returned. “You’re welcome. I’ll savor them.”

What an odd choice of words.

“But, truly,” he said, “where have you been? You were supposed to be staying here well before I moved in.”

She turned to him, blinking. “Whatever do you mean? I’ve been here, tending to the house.”

His pace slowed. “You most certainly were not here. I would have seen you.” The house was not so large that two inhabitants could go days without seeing one another.

“Oh, but I most certainly was.” She kept her walk brisk despite his slowing down. He was forced to rush to catch up with her. “In the letter I received from the estate manager, he did mention your eyes were poor. You simply must not have noticed me.”

“My vision is not _so_ terrible,” he scoffed. “It’s only things in the distance I truly struggle with. Besides, my ears work just fine. Am I to believe you make no sound?”

She laughed. It was a throaty sound. “Don’t underestimate how stealthy I can be, sir. I’ve cared for this house a long time. I know what boards do and don’t creak.”

His brow furrowed. “Perhaps you don’t mean it in such a way, but that sounded like a threat, miss.”

Suddenly, she stopped walking. She pivoted on her heel and stepped in front of him, cutting him off. He stopped just quickly enough so as not to stumble into her, but they were now uncomfortably close.

He was taller than her, but it felt as if she was looking down at him.

“Perhaps I don’t mean to threaten you,” she said, amusement in her voice. “Would you like me to?”

He...didn’t know what to say to that. He muttered a hasty, “No, of course not,” and stepped around her. He could have pushed her aside - and would have been well within his rights to do so, given how rude she was being - but there was something about her presence that intimidated him. He told himself he simply didn’t wish to lay hands on a woman, but that wasn’t the true reason and he knew it.

“I’ll be preparing tea soon,” she called after him. “Expect it to be brought to your office.”

He merely nodded in acknowledgment, without turning back.

* * *

He was on the third page of a tortuously uninspired rough draft when the caretaker walked into his office, with only a single rap on the door for warning. She didn’t even wait to be invited in.

She set a tray with a teapot, cups, and a plate full of sandwiches on the end of his writing desk. He thanked her and snatched a sandwich, nibbling at it absently while staring at his page. All he could focus on was willing his mind to produce more of the words it simply refused to offer up.

His spiral of creative angst was interrupted by the sound of a chair scraping against the floor. The caretaker pulled a chair up to the desk and took a seat across from him.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She began preparing herself a plate. “Having tea, of course.”

“Here?”

“Naturally. If this room is good enough for you to eat in, should it not be good enough for me?”

That was not the issue. Writing was an intensely private process. Given the kinds of manuscripts he produced, working alone was all the more important to him. He found himself freezing up at having an audience.

“I’m working,” he pointed out.

“I’m not,” she said. “You could follow my lead and give yourself a break.”

That seemed like the best course of action. Or rather, the only one, given that she showed no intention of leaving, and he had no intention of writing with her present. He sighed, stretched his fingers, and put his pen and paper aside.

“There you go. Much better.” She said it almost with a coo; like he had pleased her greatly by caving in to her whims of bothering him.

What a strange woman.

“What do you write?” she asked as they poured their tea.

“Encyclopedias.” It was his stock answer. “Dreadfully boring things.”

“Is that so? I happen to enjoy reading those ‘dreadfully boring’ things. You wouldn’t mind sharing some of your work with me, one of these days?”

He fumbled with his teacup. Usually, people didn’t pursue the matter further once he’d dismissed the idea of his writing bearing any interest.

“Well, perhaps. After they’re published. I’m quite shy about anyone seeing my manuscripts before they’re completed, edited, polished...the process takes a while, you know...”

Over the rim of her teacup, her pale eyes twinkled in amusement. “You could have simply told me ‘no,’ do you realize that?”

“I could have. But that would have been rather impolite, don’t you think?”

“I think, sir, that I’m a rather impolite woman.”

He didn’t know what to make of that response. He didn’t know what to make of _her_.

There was silence for a moment as they both drank their tea. He, for his part, sought refuge in the comfortable earthy flavor. If he focused on his snack, he didn’t have to think about the fact that she was watching his every move like a coiled snake.

She hadn’t been joking about the rudeness.

But...there was something in her gaze. Something he wasn’t used to feeling, and for the life of him could not put a name to if he tried. They had only just met. Rather than getting to know him through gradual conversation, this madwoman seemed intent on breaking his secrets down through her stare alone.

It sent the funniest little shiver down his spine.

...No. That was no way to think. He’d been too deep in his writing, hadn’t he? He’d started to think with the mindset of one of his protagonists. The meek, flustered men he wrote of were mere vessels of fantasy; the confident, dashing women taken with them a dream of pen and paper.

(Besides, he would never write a heroine so plain and uncouth as the woman sitting in front of him.)

“I hope you enjoyed your tea.” She broke his thoughts with the words and a clink of dishes as she gathered them and stood. “I’ll do something about a meal this evening. In the meantime, enjoy your...encyclopedias.”

He breathed easier once she was gone. To his surprise, he also found himself renewed of creativity. The salacious words he needed came to him at a steady pace instead of an agonizing crawl.

How very odd.

* * *

The caretaker seemed to have only two states of being. Either she was nowhere to be found - a fleeting ghost, making no sound nor putting in any passing appearance. Or, she was doing her damnedest to get in his way. She seemed to be under the impression that “taking care” translated into “imposing one’s presence upon your employer.”

The most infuriating thing was that he grew not to mind it so much.

At first, yes, it was deeply uncomfortable. She insisted on entering his office and staying there while he was working. Some days she would wander around the room, examining books and gazing idly out the window. Some days she would take a seat and stare at him, unflinching, like a scientist examining a butterfly splayed out and pinned before her.

Her overwhelming presence - while unsettling - proved to be a most effective (if unorthodox) muse. He supposed it made sense, considering the content of his stories. Strong women bending men to their wills and having their way with them, and the like. He told himself it was simply thematically appropriate.

It had become such a problem, this habit of hers, that on days she was busy elsewhere and couldn’t impose herself upon him, he found he had no motivation at all. Without thinking, he would find himself bouncing his foot and watching the door, waiting for inspiration to stride through with a rigid back and a cruel enigma of a smile.

Lord, what was she _doing_ to him?

She at least understood that one required silence to write. She rarely tried to start conversations unless he’d indicated by his actions that he was taking a break from the land of the fantastical. Not so, on this day. After a month (had it really been so long?) of their odd, unspoken arrangement, she spoke up while he was mid-sentence.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, you know.”

His pen came to a stumbling stop on the page. She was at the window behind his chair, and they were facing away from each other. A blessing, as his face surely displayed all his secrets on it for a shocked moment, before he could school himself back to composure.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“The things you write. There’s no need to be ashamed of them.”

He set his pen down and turned in his seat. She was leaning back on the windowsill, arms folded. That smile was on her face again, amused and unchanging.

“Ashamed? I don’t know what you mean,” he said, slowly and carefully. “I write academic texts.”

“Yes you do, and no you don’t.”

A spark of anger ignited in his chest. “Have you been reading my manuscripts without permission? I told you-”

His righteous words were overpowered by her laughter. It wasn’t a pretty laugh; it was loud, throaty, and unrestrained.

“With all due respect, sir, I don’t _need_ to peek at your papers. It’s blindingly obvious. I can do without reading a word of your actual novels; you’re an open book for me.”

“Lies,” he snapped, standing from his chair. The burning heat in his chest crawled up his neck and spilled down into his stomach.

She didn’t look intimidated in the slightest. She leaned back further, resting her palms on the windowsill and crossing her legs. “I’ve served this house for a long, long time. I’ve seen all sorts of men come and go. Men like you, they have an...aura about them.” Her pale tongue darted out to lick her lips. “It’s delightful.”

He shuddered, rooted to the spot by her stare. “You presume too much,” he protested, weak as it was.

“No. No, I think I presume precisely the right amount.”

It was she who finally stood and closed the distance between them. She reached up and grabbed hold of his chin, pulling it down so their eyes met. “Though it pains me to abstain from my favored indulgence, I’m not in the habit of taking the unwilling. When you’re ready to stop lying to yourself, sir...you know where to find me.”

With that, she left.

He sunk back into his chair, utterly confounded. His fingers drifted to his jaw. She’d gripped him hard enough that the skin was angry, flushed and warm. His touch lingered there for far too long.

* * *

He dreamt.

For the next three nights, his dreams - usually blurred and forgettable - were as vivid as dramas played out upon a stage. He remembered every detail of them even after waking.

The first night, his sleeping mind envisioned himself as a sailor captaining his ship to wealth and glory. Until he heard the deadly song of sirens on a reef, and led his crew to ruin. His mighty vessel crumbled around him, and as he clung to a scrap of paneling for dear life, the sirens dragged him somewhere dark and secret. One creature sealed her cold lips over his and shared breath to let him live while her sisters plundered his body with strong, scaly hands.

The second night, he dreamt he was the pilot of a fantastical steam-powered airship. He explored the most remote and untouched regions of the wilderness. And on one such voyage, he steered right into a nest of harpies. The winged creatures were quicker and more agile in the air than his clumsy craft, and he found himself downed and at their mercy in a matter of minutes. He fought, but he was a mere human, and no match for vultures. They tore at his clothing with wicked talons, uncaring if they cut his flesh along with it.

Despite the horrors of his slumbering visions, upon waking both nights, he found his body unbearably enamored with the scenarios his mind had put him through. He was tense, hot, and undeniably aroused.

The third night brought something different. He was, at first, not sure if it was a dream at all. He was still in his bed. The now-familiar textures of the sheets and pillowcase were unmistakable. Though he felt as if he’d opened his eyes, he could see nothing but black. He reached up to feel his face for whatever was blinding him, but he jolted when two bony hands grabbed his wrists.

He tried to speak - he needed to know what was going on - but no words would form in his mouth. All that came out was agitated breaths and incoherent whines.

A delighted chuckle tickled his ear.

“Cute,” a familiar voice whispered.

That woman-!

His heart pounded loudly enough that she must have been able to hear it.

“Are you scared?” she cooed.

Yes! He was!

...wasn’t he?

This was a nightmare!

...wasn’t it?

“Poor man,” she sighed. One of his wrists was released. Short, stubby fingernails trailed down his cheek in a caress that made him shiver in something that decidedly was not fear. “It’s hard, isn’t it? To let go of the pride that’s been instilled in you your entire life. To recognize the urge to submit for what it is and _listen_ to it.”

With his free hand, he gripped her shoulder. He thought to push her away. He ended up pulling her closer.

Cold lips brushed across his forehead. She relinquished his other wrist and shifted down his body, and suddenly both of her hands were shoved between his legs. He choked.

“You fool. Those fantasies you put to paper didn’t come from the ether, as much as you’d like to think otherwise.”

Her touch was ice on the hot skin of his inner thighs, even through the thin fabric of his nightclothes. He wondered: Was she a ghost? Some spectral creature? He might have thought her a vampire, had he not seen her walk unscathed in the autumn sun.

Or perhaps she was a succubus. Those monsters of legend, sent to tempt men with their most hidden fantasies, drawing them out to feast...

She squeezed at his groin, putting a halt to his mind’s fantastical wandering. He keened at the sensation, pressing his legs closed as best he could around her hands.

“You think too much,” she chided-

-and then she was gone.

He awoke in a sweat that no doubt came from the burning ache low in his stomach. His sight and his voice had been returned to him. He pawed at the sheets and stared at his closed bedroom door, looking for any sign the caretaker had come to taunt him in his dormant state. There was nothing. Nothing but him, and his undeniable need.

He wondered if he wasn’t going a bit mad.

* * *

The heat of the following day belied the late month. There was an uncharacteristic humidity in the air as he sat at the table in the courtyard, watching the caretaker toiling away in the garden. Despite the temperature, she still wore long sleeves and skirts. This far away, he couldn’t see her face. He wondered if she was sweating like a normal person, or if she was somehow above all that.

He finished his tea, folded the napkin in his lap, and stood. He’d finished his latest manuscript that morning, the last missing scenes flowing from him in a burst of creativity no doubt spurred by his confounding dreams. He had time to spare, and questions that needed answering.

She turned as he approached her. Before she could speak, he demanded:

“Are you human?”

The question hung in the air for too long, with only the buzzing of late-season insects to keep it company. It was long enough for him to grow thoroughly embarrassed with himself for asking it. A blush played at the high points of his cheeks. But he stood his ground. He would not take it back.

When she finally did answer, it wasn’t with the disdain he’d expected (and, frankly, would not have blamed her for laying on him).

“Does it matter what I am?”

The vagueness of her response gave him the confidence to ask one more question. He licked his lips and took one hesitant step closer, trying to see the nuances of her face.

“Are you real?”

She didn’t let that inquiry linger like she had the last. Rather, she dropped the rake she’d been holding and grabbed hold of his upper arms, much like she had on their first meeting. But this time, instead of pulling him away from some threat, she became the threat. She pushed him - with a truly deceptive amount of strength - and he was forced to stumble where she led him, lest he trip and fall. She marched him to the nearest wall of the courtyard and shoved him against it, knocking the breath from his lungs.

She was close enough now that he could see her face. She had in fact been sweating in the heat - her pale skin was covered with a sheen, and marked with several smudges of dirt. She was smiling again.

“You tell me, sir. Do I feel real to you?”

Something told him he wasn’t meant to answer that question. He did anyway, a tad breathless:

“You do.”

She gave him an amused little _hmph_. She turned her head this way and that, examining him in that cutting manner of hers. He had no doubt now that she somehow knew what he’d dreamt of, what his mind had been occupied with. The irritating thing was that he found he didn’t mind the thought of that any longer.

“If you’d like,” she said, “I won’t be real. I’ll be a figment of your literary imagination, come to life to torment you. You’d like to pretend that, would you not?”

She leaned forward and ran her open mouth over the expanse of his throat, inhaling deeply like a wolf snuffling at its meal.

“But,” she continued, murmuring into the hollow of his throat, “know this: To me? You are quite real. You are real, and you are here, and you are a way for me to get what I want. Nothing less and nothing more.”

He wasn’t such a fool that he didn’t know what he was agreeing to when he swallowed and asked, “And what is it that you want?”

She pulled her face out of his throat just long enough to show a delighted grin to him. “Oh, you are going to be _fun_.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and craned his neck, prey baring its neck for a recognized predator. He waited for her to attack, but after some long moments, nothing came. Cautiously, he cracked one eyelid open, only to see the caretaker burst into hearty laughter. She released him and stumbled back, clutching her stomach with the strength of her amusement.

“Not right this moment,” she said, once she’d calmed enough to speak. “While I appreciate your enthusiasm, sir - look at the state of this garden! I have work to do.”

“Oh,” he muttered, feeling quite silly. He stepped forward from where he’d been pressed against the wall and straightened his clothes to busy his hands. “I see.”

She walked away and retrieved her rake, waving him away. “Go and find something else to entertain yourself with until I need you.”

A lifetime of social discipline scratched at his mind, saying: _You’re her superior. She can’t speak to you like that. Shouldn’t_ you _be saying that to_ her?

He ignored it.

“Yes, well...enjoy your work.”

“You as well, sir.”

And she was back to gardening as if nothing at all had happened.

It was a long wait until nightfall. He had planned to do precisely as she’d said and busy himself. Not because she had ordered him to! He wasn’t beholden to her whims! Simply because it was the reasonable thing to do, of course. But he found that he could focus on nothing. Books went straight through his head without being processed. Walks around the estate turned into fertile ground for his mind to fantasize about the damnable woman in the garden. He had no appetite - at least, not for food.

This woman had done something to him. Perhaps she had been correct in that these desires had always lain within him, but...of all the people to penetrate his walls and drag them screaming into the light of day...why _her?_

All this was to say: When the caretaker finally came and found him at dusk, he was remarkably worked up. He was pacing the halls by his sleeping quarters, wondering when she would arrive. (If she even did arrive...he would not put it above her to rile him up and then abandon him as a cruel joke). But she did come, at last. Carrying a candle to ward off the encroaching darkness and bearing a small pouch tied at her waist. She seemed to be wearing the same work clothing she’d had on in the garden. As she drew closer, he could smell traces of grass and earth clinging to her. If she had bothered to clean herself up at all, she hadn’t been thorough about it.

He’d done his best to make himself presentable, as much as was suited to their current endeavors. He kept himself well-groomed as a matter of principle, but he’d gone through an extra bathing routine and pulled from the back of his wardrobe the outfit that had been most well-received by his past paramours. (None of whom resembled the woman standing before him now, not in appearance and certainly not in mannerisms.) She looked him up and down and finished with an approving nod.

He felt as if he should say something. He was unsure of what, though. All of his standard plans for romantic encounters simply didn’t apply here. As a man, he should take the lead and reassure his partner of his desire for her, yes? Hah. The idea of doing that to this woman was so implausible as to be comical. Besides, he wasn’t even sure if he desired _her_ , so much as he desired what she promised so insistently to give him. He would feel worse about that if she hadn’t so blatantly stated her similar feelings towards him on the matter.

A way to get what both of them wanted. Nothing less and nothing more.

He reached for the handle of his bedroom door and cleared his throat. “I...” he began.

“...want me to destroy you?” the caretaker continued for him. She set her candle in the nearby alcove and drew close to him. She wrapped one arm around his waist and laid the other on top of his hand, which was still hesitantly rested on the door handle. “...want me to tame you, and dominate you, and pleasure you until you can think of nothing but how badly you want me to hold you down and ruin you every night?”

His mouth was alarmingly dry all of a sudden. “Y-yes,” he croaked. “In so many words.”

“How fortunate, then, that you picked my lair to make your home in.”

She laced their fingers together and pulled his hand away from the door handle. She pushed him to the side and pinned that hand to the wall, indicating the rest of his body should follow. Once his back was pressed up against the wall, she released his hand and brought her fingers to his lips, tapping impatiently against them in the same way he drummed idle rhythms on his writing desk.

“Open up, then.”

He did.

She slipped her fingers into his mouth, pressing down on his tongue. They tasted of salt. The sensation was unfamiliar and rather unpleasant at first; he wondered if he might gag. But as she kept putting pressure on his tongue, rubbing her fingers back and forth in an unmistakably lewd motion, it tickled the nerves there in a way that sent pleasant tingles down his spine. It became relaxing, almost hypnotic. He didn’t realize how far he’d drifted off until her voice startled him back into full awareness.

“Suck on them.”

He hummed a garbled affirmation around the digits in his mouth. Anything to get her to keep doing that absurdly pleasant thing to his tongue. He closed his lips around her fingers and pulled them deeper into his mouth, sucking with an enthusiasm he didn’t know he possessed.

“That’s good,” she muttered. “You have a lovely mouth on you.”

The comment made his stomach twist with a volatile mixture of humiliation and joy. He...he’d written about feelings like this. Waves of shame that left you craving more. He’d thought them nothing more than a convenient literary cliché. He had no idea the real sensation could be so powerful.

She pressed her knee between his legs and dragged her free hand up the front of his thigh. She palmed at his groin, and he let out an unabashed moan around her fingers. He hardly heard the chuckle she made in response to his outburst. He was too focused on the confident press of her hand, squeezing in a way that made his knees buckle beneath him. She pulled her fingers out of his mouth - he missed them immediately - and wrapped a hand around the seat of his pants to support him.

“Sensitive, are we?”

It wasn’t a question that needed an answer. He gave one anyway - an incoherent but definitively affirmative groan. He’d never felt this sensitive with his past lovers. Every inch of his body was keyed up, singing where her hands touched in spite of the layers of clothing that should have dulled the sensations.

“What have you done to me?”

He wasn’t aware he’d muttered it out loud until she chuckled. Where the sound had once irritated him, it sent a twinge of anticipation through him now.

“Nothing,” she said. “Yet.”

With that, she gripped him once more. She handled him with no more difficulty than a sack of dirt, spinning him around and shoving him into the wall face-first. (Was she truly so strong? Was he truly so weak? Or was he simply so overcome that he would let her do anything without an ounce of resistance?)

He rested his forehead against the wall, but the rustic old wallpaper didn’t provide enough of a chill to clear his head. She pressed up against his back, her presence relentless and overwhelming, as if she hoped to devour him by touch alone.

She was, he supposed, succeeding in that endeavor - on the emotional plane, at least. His head was rapidly draining of its worried thoughts, one concern after another leaving with every hungry, open-mouthed kiss she placed at the back of his neck. All that was left was her, and he wanted more.

The following minutes (seconds? hours?) were a blur. His eyes had slipped closed at some point, and it was hard to distinguish one sensation from another when they all felt so good. He remembered her untucking his shirt, slipping her cold hands under the fabric to grip his waist. He remembered the press of her chest against his back, the curve of her breasts concealed under her simple clothing, but undeniably present. He remembered her letting out a most pleased-sounding little huff when he lost himself completely and began rutting against the wall. He didn’t care that he was still clothed. He didn’t care how undignified it was. He cared that she was tormenting him with a touch unfairly arousing, and he was so hard it hurt.

“Oh, I’ve missed this,” she said - more to herself - with a voice all breath. Then her hands were groping past his hips to undo the clasps of his pants. She was careful, this time, not to touch him directly where he needed it the most. It was enough to make him pout a bit, if only in his head. Where had this restraint been the entire time he’d known her?

She slid his pants and underclothes down just to the tops of his thighs, exposing his rigid length to the air. “Behave, now,” she muttered.

He understood that as a request to stay still, or perhaps simply an order not to touch himself. She didn’t have to worry about either. He was so overtaken by her attentions that coordination had fled him. So, however, had the haze previously muddling his mind; he was painfully aware of every small movement of her body behind him as she released her hold on his clothing and stepped back.

Hesitantly - worrying he was somehow disobeying her - he turned his head and cast his eyes over his shoulder to see what she was doing. She’d opened the drawstring on the pouch she’d come bearing. She reached inside and withdrew a small vial of what looked like a thin, oily substance.

Oh.

Another turn of phrase he’d never expected to come to life: His cock twitched. The rest of his body flushed with open interest. It didn’t go unnoticed.

“You know what I’m doing, then?” Her amused smile returned as she coated one of her hands in the vial’s contents. “Did you write about it in one of your ‘encyclopedias?’”

He gave her a brief glare. That seemed to bring her great joy.

She stepped back into his space. She gripped his hair and turned his head so he was no longer looking at her.

“Listen to me,” she said, speaking slowly and with purpose. “I am going to be exactly and only as gentle as I need to be. I’ll determine that based on what responses you give me. If you give me nothing to work with, I’ll be left to my imagination.” She released his hair and dragged her hand down his chest. “And, you should know: My imagination can be quite cruel.”

He swallowed, difficult as it was with his mouth so dry. “I understand.”

She pushed her oiled hand between his legs, prompting him to part them for her. Her fingers - now icy in slick texture as well as temperature - brushed the underside of his scrotum. His hands, braced against the wall, clenched. He hadn’t truly noticed until now how calloused her hands were from long years of laboring.

She lingered there, teasing him, no doubt savoring the way he twitched and shuddered under her fingers like a tightly-strung instrument. Eventually, she trailed the tips of her fingers up to his exposed backside.

He was surprised. He thought a touch there, on such an intimate and unexplored part of him, would bring outright pain if not simple discomfort. When it came, he found quite quickly that it brought no such thing. The sensation was odd in its unfamiliarity, of course. But the press of her slicked fingers, gently circling and opening him with a slow and persistent pressure - it was nothing to fear.

However, it didn’t yet feel _good_ in the way his writings described it. It was pleasant that she was touching him when he was lit up and attuned to every movement she made, but the physical sensation itself brought none of the dreamy sparks it did in the realms of fiction. He wondered what he was missing.

Then, she pulled his hips back a tad, bending him forward, and tilted his back just so, and did something with her fingers that-

_”Oh._

_That_ was a sensation right off the pages of a fantasy.

“Follow me,” she said, reaching for the handle of the bedroom door, “and there will be more where that came from.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Though it was his bedroom they were entering, she was the one inviting him in. She pushed him towards the bed and instructed him to remove his shoes and pants. As he did so, she stepped aside to fuss with her own clothing, and he was able to see her properly for the first time since their entanglement had begun.

She looked...beautiful, somehow. Not in the traditional ways of a fair, young maiden. Her stern features remained unchanged. But there was a glow to her he hadn’t yet seen. Her cheeks were dusted with a hearty blush. Stray strands of hair had slipped and fallen free into her face. Her eyes were bright, wide and glistening. Her lower lip was wet and ever so slightly swollen - had she been biting it?

She looked alive.

Focused on the woman’s face, he hardly even noticed her disrobing. She removed her shoes and her dress, then slipped her hands under her shift to pull her underpants off. She showed no intentions of removing the shift, nor her stockings. He didn’t mind that in the slightest.

She approached the bed, where he was seated. Once she stood before him, she hiked up the hem of her shift and pinned her hand to her waist, exposing herself without preamble. A small coating of dark blonde hair rested between her legs. The strength of her arousal was evident - her scent filled the air, and she’d gone slick enough that it had begun to coat her inner thighs.

“Tell me,” she said, “have you ever pleasured a woman? Truly served her? Not simply gone through the motions to find your own release.”

What an insulting insinuation! “Of course I have. Would you have pursued me so doggedly if you thought me a selfish lover?”

She lifted one stocking-laden leg and pressed her foot against his chest, pushing him onto his back. “I don’t think you’re selfish. I only assume you’ve been taught to love a woman in one way only. That tends to be the case.”

She crawled on top of him, a devilish smile on her face. “Now, I invite you to prove me wrong. Show me that those little romance stories of yours have taught you something good.”

With that, she braced herself and mounted his face.

Immediately, he was overwhelmed. She was so incredibly warm and wet, and the _scent_ of her - goodness! For a long moment he simply closed his eyes and adjusted to having his senses completely filled with the woman on top of him.

Then she shifted and gave an impatient cough. Right. Yes. His honor as a gentlemanly lover was on the line.

He gripped her bottom to steady himself and went to work between her legs. He sucked at her swollen lips - gently at first, interspersed with long, worshipful licks. Though he worried at first, she was quite happy to tell him when he was doing well and when he wasn’t. When he spent too much time lapping at her hardened clit for her liking, she grabbed his hair and pushed his mouth lower. When he found an angle she liked, she hissed for him to stay put and wriggled her hips, unabashed.

He had no idea how long he’d been servicing her this way. Much longer than he would for a normal lover, that was certain. His jaw was quite sore when she released in his mouth, her thighs trembling about his head. She leaned back, propping herself up on her arms behind her, and let out a sigh. It sounded happier and more carefree than he’d thought a sound from her could be.

“Alright,” she said after a moment of rest. “You’ve proved yourself. Should I give you something in return, I wonder...?”

His own arousal - untouched this whole time, yet unflagging - certainly hoped the answer was ‘yes.’

She climbed off of him and stood, stretching her back. “I suppose I didn’t prepare you for nothing.”

She returned to the pouch she’d brought. It was on the table along with her folded dress. The next item she withdrew from it - once he’d squinted enough to make out its shape - sent his heart thudding with anticipation.

She cast him a cheeky smile as she fastened the contraption about her waist. “Would you look at that? Mine is larger than yours.”

“Oh, very funny.”

Once she’d strapped the leather belts around her waist, she turned her hips to him, showing off her, well...he supposed there was no beating around the bush at this point. She bore a proud phallus at the apex of her thighs. It was made of glass that glinted in the low candlelight. The leather that made up its harness was clearly well-worn. Perhaps it was that detail - along with the unbreakable confidence this woman wielded - that prevented nervousness from rearing its head in him. Though her tool looked intimidating, she knew what she was doing with it. She wouldn’t truly hurt him.

(Unless, of course, he wished her to do so.)

She reached between her legs and coated her fingers with her release, then began slicking up her facsimile erection with it. My, that was...he’d have to remember that for his next draft. Although to him she’d certainly seemed wet enough to lubricate just about anything, she retrieved a bit more oil before she appeared satisfied.

She returned to the bed. She finally discarded her shift along the way - if only, he guessed, because it might get in the way of putting her new toy to use. As she climbed onto the sheets, he admired the subtle, wiry curves of muscle in her body. Though she had a slight frame, she’d clearly put it to work over the years.

“You’re handsome like this,” she said softly, trailing her palm along his flushed cheek. “Are you ready for my cock?”

Vulgar. Vulgar, but true. He nodded, his arousal far outweighing his embarrassment. He moved to turn over onto his stomach, but she pushed him onto his back and held him there with a hand on his chest.

“No,” she said. “I want you to watch as I take you.”

The primal, uncaring thing in him that had nestled in his stomach and burned all night wriggled with joy at that statement.

She settled herself between his thighs and spread his legs. The intensity with which she looked at him - rather, with which she looked at his most intimate parts - overwhelmed him. He wasn’t used to having his body scrutinized in this manner. He wondered if he was somehow unsatisfying to her.

If he was, she didn’t show it. In no time at all she was pushing into him, and - _well_.

It was certainly more solid than her pliant, nimble fingers. Again, it was not a painful sensation, but it was an unyielding one. It thrilled him, in a way; she was entering his body one way or another, and all he could do was lie back and let her.

She went slowly, for which he was thankful. By the time her hips came to a stop, pressed against the back of his uppermost thighs, he was almost unbearably full with her. It took his breath away, quite literally. She allowed him a moment to compose himself and grow accustomed to the penetration.

“Well?” she asked, once his breathing had returned to a steady pace. “How do I feel inside you?”

His life revolved around words. As a child, he’d locked himself in the library and devoured books whose nuances went far over the head of a boy his age. As a boy, he’d studied literature with the passion of a man courting his one true love. As a man, he’d made the written word his career.

Yet, somehow, all those magical words had fled him now. To her question, all he could say was a dumbfounded, “Good.”

“I’ll have to take that as a compliment.”

He blinked, and - upon realizing how unenthusiastic he may have sounded - added, “It is. A compliment, I mean.”

“Oh, I know.” She smirked. “It’s never a good sign when the man you’re ravishing is clear-headed enough to form real sentences.”

This woman and her bold tongue was going to be the death of him.

She shifted between his legs, setting herself up on her knees. She gripped the backs of his knees and handled him into a position she was satisfied with. He felt quite exposed, but that was, he reminded himself, a futile thing to be worrying about at this point.

With a content little hum, she set about her aforementioned ravishment.

Earlier, in the hallway, he’d been dazed and unfocused. Now, he was keenly aware of every movement as she pulled her slick glass cock from his body, then pushed back in. In all of his previous trysts, he’d never felt this sensitive. This woman had worked some sort of spell on him - and he hoped she never took it back.

She was deceptively gentle for a few minutes. She rolled her hips into him in a steady, leisurely rhythm. He was responsive - which he couldn’t help - but she seemed to like that. She smiled at the weak moans that escaped his throat with every few rocks of her hips.

Just as he’d begun to think she was boasting about such lofty things as ‘ruining’ him, she surprised him once more. She paused for a moment and wiped the sweat collecting at her hairline. Still buried inside him, she bent over and stole a quick, careless kiss from his lips.

Then she made true on her promise.

She...well, there was no other word for it. She fucked him. She fucked him quickly, and deeply, and with a strength that took the breath from his lungs. He was glad she’d put him on his back; had he been supporting his own weight in any way, he surely would have collapsed beneath the sheer force of her.

It was just the right side of too much. With every thrust, it felt as if she were pushing the thoughts from his head one by one, until there was nothing left to think about but her and her power and the marvelous way she made him feel.

Truly, this woman was something special.

There was no doubt she knew the mess she was making of him. His neck was craned, his head fallen back on the sheets. Incoherent noises of pure delight spilled from him. The closest he got to a full sentence was various permutations of “yes” and “more.”

She adjusted her position a bit so she was almost above him, as if she was trying to nail him to the bed frame. Then, on one stray, shallow thrust, she made his whole body seize with pleasure. He reached for her, gripping at her arms, and entreated her to _keep doing that_.

“I suppose you’ve earned it.”

At the least, she wasn’t unaffected by her physical exertions. Her words were stilted, and her breaths came in heavy huffs as she granted him his wish. He spilled himself on her cock, his release coating his stomach. Idly, it occurred to him that he hadn’t touched himself once that night. It was still the strongest climax he’d ever experienced.

He went limp in her grasp, blinking stars from his eyes. She had withdrawn from him, but she wasn’t finished. She took in the sight of him, her mouth slack and panting, then loosened the belts around her thighs. She reached between her legs and rubbed herself to another climax with frantic fingers.

The room seemed so silent without the sounds of their frantic coupling. Her tool slipped down her legs and discarded, she lay down beside him, her arms sprawled above her head. The bed was large enough that they weren’t touching each other, and she showed no interest in wanting to hold him or be held. That was fine with him. Whatever relationship had sprouted between them, it wasn’t the kind filled with sweet words and lazy embraces.

He was content to rest alongside her for a while. As clarity returned to his head, though, he realized just how sweaty and sticky the both of them were. It was impossible for him to fall asleep in this state, and whether or not she felt the same, it would be rude not to help her clean up.

He rolled over and planted his feet on the floor. As soon as he began to walk, he realized what a bad decision he was making.

“Sorry,” she called from the bed, chuckling at his obvious twinges of pain. “You’ll be sore for a while. Let me.”

He was grateful for the offer, because he truly wasn’t sure he could make it to the washroom right this moment. He sat back on the bed, and she left the room. She took her time to return. When she walked through the door, she was dressed in her nightclothes. She looked as immaculate as ever - as if nothing had happened that night more strenuous than making dinner.

That just wasn’t fair.

He accepted the cloths she handed to him and did his best to scrub himself clean with minimal movement. To his surprise, she helped him with some of the...harder-to-reach spots. She even went to his wardrobe and procured his own nightclothes for him.

“I didn’t expect this amount of doting from you,” he said, half in jest, as he pulled on his nightshirt.

“Oh, don’t get used to it. It simply wouldn’t do to leave you dazed and confused after your first time.”

His brow furrowed. “This wasn’t my first time.”

She perked up. In spite of himself, he was starting to grow fond of that wicked, cheeky smile. “Oh, really? You’ve had cock in you before? You certainly didn’t act like it.”

He flushed. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Well, it’s what _I_ meant.”

He sighed, but it was almost a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“I try.” She snuffed out the candle on his bedroom table. “Now, rest. You’ll want to move carefully in the morning.”

Oh, wonderful. He groaned and pulled the covers over himself. He wasn’t looking forward to that.

* * *

He wasn’t sure what he expected from the next day. For her to be gone, maybe - vanished in the night like she’d never been there in the first place. For her to taunt and degrade him for the weakness he'd shown in giving in to her, perhaps.

But, no. He woke well into the afternoon, his body equal parts satisfied and cranky for what he’d done to it. Taking her advice, he bathed and dressed himself with care. (It wasn’t _so_ terrible. Just uncomfortable.) When he headed into the courtyard, there she was. Tending to the garden with her usual rigor.

The sound of his footsteps pulled her out of her weeding work. She straightened and turned in his direction. He was too far away to make out the details of her face, but he knew in his gut that she was smiling.

“So the sleeping beauty awakes at last,” she called. “Were you staying in so long in hopes of a kiss to break your spell?”

“Indeed I was,” he called back. He’d come to the conclusion that it was easier - and more entertaining - to simply go along with her teasing.

“Sorry to disappoint you, then. I don't fancy myself charming enough for that.” She turned back to the dirt. “You’ll have to make yourself something to eat if you're hungry; the next meal is dinner.”

And that was it. No further needling. Business as usual.

His heart felt incredibly light as he made his way to the kitchen.

* * *

She flipped a page, read for a moment, then frowned. She reached for a pen to make a note.

“I’m going to have to forbid you from writing the phrase ‘throbbing manhood’ in any future works,” she said.

He gave a short hum of acknowledgment. He could hardly produce a more eloquent response, his head buried as it was between her legs.

She set the pen aside and scanned a few more paragraphs. She reached down, idly stroking his hair as she read.

Cagey as he typically was with his writing before it was polished and published, even he had to concede that he himself was not an expert on his fiction’s subject matter. With the caretaker’s obvious experience in the field, it would be foolish to allow his pride to prevent him from seeking her feedback.

She should have been honored he trusted her enough to hand over his manuscripts to her. Instead, she demanded compensation for her work.

Not that he minded the form of payment she dealt in.

“Hmm.” She gripped his hair and pulled him closer against her. “‘A lustful wolf curled under the hide of a prim and proper sheep, she waited to pounce,’” she read aloud. “I like that line.”

She was sitting in her usual chair in the library; he was kneeling at her feet. She unhooked one such foot - clad in a worn leather boot - from behind the leg of the chair and slid her toes up the inner expanse of his thigh. He was fully clothed, and this was the first intimate touch she’d given him since she sat down to assist him. That didn’t stop him from shivering at the caress. He was already stiff underneath his pants. He had been so practically from the moment she ordered him to kneel and hiked up her skirts.

“Though I have to wonder,” she pondered, dropping her foot to the floor, “did you see me as a sheep? I don’t feign innocence, sir. I should hope one knows the kind of woman I am from the moment they meet me.”

 _No one could imagine the kind of woman you are,_ he didn’t say. Instead, he sucked eagerly at her swollen cunt, all his senses filled with her. This must have pleased her, as she brought her foot out of its repose once more. She trailed the point of her boot up from his knee to his groin, and upon feeling the arousal that awaited her there, pressed down firmly with a flat foot.

It felt incredible.

“Should I be flattered or concerned at your heroine’s physical attributes?” she said, idly playing with him using nothing more than the sole of her shoe. She ground against his twitching length, hardly looking up from the manuscript and hardly heading his stuttered groans. ‘Cornsilk hair...a modest bosom...hands ravaged by the slings and arrows of time...’ That last one, by the way - a bit overwrought, don’t you think?”

Well, there was no use denying his inspiration, even if he could defend himself at the moment. Even before he had willingly stepped into the trap the caretaker had sprung for him, she’d been acting as his muse through her sheer persistence alone. Could she blame him?

(That was the wrong question. She _could_ blame him, certainly. The real worry was whether or not she _would_.)

She hummed for a minute, as if considering it, while she held his head still and canted against his mouth. “I think,” she said, her voice a tad unsteady, “I’ll go with ‘flattered.’”

He recognized when she was about to orgasm. She’d been using him so thoroughly it had grown difficult to breathe, but he was hardly going to try and pull away when she was so close. He blinked a passing film of dizziness from his eyes while she let out a single, breathless moan and twitched fervently around his tongue.

She set the manuscript aside and relaxed back into the chair with a fond sigh. She patted him on the head and gave a condescending mutter of, “Good boy.” That...did not help the situation between his own legs.

He was unsure what to do. He didn’t want to leave his own arousal ignored. Was she done with him now that she’d found her release? Did she want more? Would she be offended if he tended to himself at her feet while she finished her reading...?

He waited, uncertain, with his hands on her knees. When she lowered her gaze to meet his, he gave her an earnest look that he hoped would communicate his need without words.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I suppose there is the matter of this to take care of.”

She indicated the matter at hand - or at foot, as it were - with another nudge from her boot. He didn’t know how something so cold as molded leather could feel so good, even through layers of clothing.

“I must say, all this editing work has left me exhausted. I’d rather not leave this chair.”

He took that as a cue to stand. Clearly his interpretation was incorrect, because when he made to do so, she pushed him back down with two firm hands on his shoulders.

“And I’d also rather you stay right where you are,” she said.

“Would you, now?” he said.

“Yes. I would.”

With a devilish smile, she once again raised her foot, pressing the broad, unforgiving expanse of its worn-down sole against the rigid length of his cock.

“I’m sure,” she said, “with an imagination was lewd as yours, you can figure out how to satisfy yourself in this manner. Keeping your hands well away from yourself, of course.”

Wicked, _wicked_ woman.

He bowed his head. It was as much a bid to rest the strain on his neck as it was an acquiescence to her instructions. He braced his hands on her knees, licked his lips (still wet with her), and began rutting shamelessly against the sole of her boot.

“Now that’s a pretty sight,” she said. “I could do with seeing this more often.”

It was utterly humiliating. It was amazing.

She contributed here and there, on a whim. A lazy grind of her heel here and there, along with one cruel withdrawal of her foot entirely, that left him begging her to return it. It was almost frightening, how heady this sense of surrendering his dignity could be. He wondered if one could grow addicted to it. It felt like he already had.

He spilled himself inside one of his nicest pairs of pants, rutting on a dirt-stained boot like a dog, and he couldn’t have been happier about it.

And when the caretaker - his caretaker - petted his hair and muttered assurances that he’d done well, that he had pleased her...he wondered if he wasn't growing addicted to her as well.

He found he didn’t mind the prospect.


End file.
